[???]
The sky above me was no longer a sky. It had become something else. A latticework of fractures spread across the skies like shattered glass suspended mid-fall, somehow still trembling at the edges. Each crack spanned across miles—wide as mountain ranges. Beyond them was not stars, nor clouds. No. What lingered past those breaks in the firmament was a void deeper than any pit.
And beneath that broken dome, I stood—ankle-deep in a graveyard that hadn't been here the day before.
My feet sank into the wet ground. The soil had been churned by the trampling of thousands and then flooded by blood and rain alike. I heard nothing but the wind now as it whispered through the collapsed forms of the fallen.
They were my brothers.
My sisters.
My kin.
The mountain I stood atop wasn't made of stone. It was bone and metal and feather and flesh. Wings—once white, once luminous—had collapsed. Most were broken, twisted at odd angles. Their feathers soaked with red and rusted black, no longer gleaming in Father's light. Their armor, the pride of Heaven's legion, was cracked open like eggshells. Some still clutched their swords. Others had died with their arms stretched toward the sky, as if they could catch what was falling.
No one had.
No one could.
I remained untouched.
I always did.
My own armor was still immaculate—white, trimmed in gold. It didn't belong in this place. I didn't belong in this place. My long white tailcoat draped past the backs of my legs, brushing against the mire of Death, and yet not a speck of it clung to me.
I lowered my gaze, the soft squelch of movement drawing my attention to a puddle nearby—shallow, rain-fed, edged with blood.
My reflection greeted me.
A face too delicate. Eyes—red—stared back. My white hair, wild and damp from the mist, curled at the edges of my jaw, falling just to my shoulders. I had chosen this form for utility. Its frame was compact, its motion efficient. But even now, looking into that water, I couldn't help but feel the femininity in the cheeks, in the jawline.
I looked like a doll.
Beautiful, yes. Unforgivably so, I always knew.
But hollow.
I blinked once.
And then I laughed.
"I was right," I whispered to no one. Not to the corpses. Not to the puddle. Not even to myself. Just to the air. "It was a mistake… giving them that freedom. Giving them a say in anything."
I stepped carefully between two of my kin, their wings intertwined in Death. One had her eyes open. The other's helmet was shattered open from the inside.
"They didn't deserve autonomy."
I looked upward again. At the fissures. At the cracks we'd failed to stop from forming. And beyond them—at that blackness waiting to spread.
"At least that little punk is throwing a rebellion. And Michael… that stubborn fool… he still doesn't see it. Still clings to the ideals Father left him. Still believes in forgiveness."
I scoffed aloud.
"Father…"
The word nearly choked me.
He made them. Crafted them with such care, sculpted them in his image, breathed will into their lungs—and called it love. But what he failed to understand—what none of them understood—was that love without discipline is rot. That to grant life to creatures whose instincts lean toward ruin is to sign a slow Death for everything.
They weren't evil by design. No. That would have made them easier to understand.
They were something worse: inconsistent.
They wept as they destroyed. Apologized as they slaughtered. They built beauty and then fed it to fire. They wanted peace, they screamed for it—and then tore it apart with bare hands the moment fear whispered in their ears.
"I knew what they were the moment Father shaped them," I said, bitterly. "The day he gave the first two the garden, I knew. This—all of this—was inevitable."
And now here we were.
Millions of us. Dead.
For their sins.
My nails dug into the gauntlets at my sides. The edges of my fists trembled with something close to fury. It wasn't passion anymore. It was clarity.
"They must be culled," I murmured. "All of them. Not just here. Not just this realm."
I raised my head once more. The sky seemed closer now. Like it was leaning in to listen.
"Every world. Every realm. Every shadow of creation where mortals breathe. I'll wipe them clean. If they scream, they'll scream into silence. If they pray, they'll pray to ash."
A beat of silence passed.
Then another.
"They cannot be suffered to live."
------------------
[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
[Virelheim Mountain Village]
Red eyes slowly blinked open to meet the grain of an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. The air was filled with the scent of something faintly herbal—perhaps the remnants of incense burned long ago. For a moment, Mikoto didn't move. He simply lay there, cocooned in a blanket, the soft weight of it hugging his small frame.
Then, like a wave breaking over him, memory returned—disjointed and muddled at first, before crystallizing into clarity.
("Right… Gretel. She gave me a room. A place to stay.")
With an almost reluctant motion, Mikoto pushed himself upright, the worn blanket slipping from his narrow shoulders. His white hair, tousled and unruly, fell wildly across his cheeks and collarbone, partially veiling his face. His thin black sleepwear clung loosely to his frame, simple in form—just a shirt and trousers, plain cotton.
The room around him was minimal—just four walls of timber and a low ceiling that seemed to press slightly inward. A modest table stood in the corner, a small bundle of folded clothes atop it, a single piece of paper resting neatly on top. A lone wardrobe, old and slightly uneven, leaned in the far corner, its door slightly ajar. Aside from the bed, that was all. No mirror, no candlelight.
Mikoto slid his legs over the edge of the bed. His delicate bare feet touched the cold wood floor with a muted tap, but he didn't flinch. The sensation didn't bother him—not anymore. It was grounding, if anything.
He sat there for a long moment, a hand raised to his wild mane of white hair, fingers threading through it absently as though hoping to massage clarity into his mind. But all that came was more confusion.
("That dream… No, not a dream. It didn't feel like one.") His brows furrowed, a crease forming between his eyes. ("It was too lucid and coherent. Every detail was vivid. Every emotion, every thought… It felt like I wasn't just watching it happen—I was there. I wasn't dreaming at all. I was remembering.")
A quiet sound escaped his rosy lips, a sigh.
("A memory.")
He didn't want to give it voice, but the words formed anyway, murmured under his breath.
"The memories of my previous incarnation…"
There it was. Spoken aloud, it became undeniable. The dream wasn't a metaphor or figment. It was a window. A fracture in the wall between what he is and what he was.
Octavia had warned him, in her own cryptic, irritating way, she had muttered something about how his "past would surface" during the phase. He had dismissed her, assumed she was just speaking through her ass.
("I hate that I have to admit it, but maybe… she wasn't lying.")
His hands clenched at his sides, trembling, fingers tightening into loose fists.
("But if that's true, if these visions are fragments of who I used to be… then why didn't Lucinda react the same way? She's undergone the phase too. Shouldn't her memories have surfaced just as vividly?")
He sat in silence, processing that, red eyes dim with thought.
("No… I'm assuming too much. I don't know what Lucinda was like before the phase. Her current self might already be the result of her former incarnation's influence. Maybe she didn't remember—because she never forgot.")
And that thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.
He exhaled and rose slowly from the bed, he approached the small table where the folded clothes and note lay, but his mind was still swimming with uncertainty.
("If I piece together the memory from earlier and the tone of my own voice in it… I already know who I was. What kind of Angel I used to be.")
His fingers hovered above the note, but he didn't touch it yet.
("And that changes everything.")
He closed his eyes, another long breath slipping past parted lips.
("If my hunch is right, then staying in the phase might be more dangerous than I thought. It's not just physical transformation—it's spiritual convergence. My soul's being overwritten by past personality data.")
The implications of that were heavy. If he tried to age himself out of the phase too early, he might disrupt the fusion. If he let it continue too long, he might vanish altogether, lost in a sea of past memory.
("I could try partial Arcane Ascendance… maybe regain some control. But that's a gamble.")
He thought back to his desperate stunt—reaching the Ninth Dimension just to anchor Alyssia's soul. Messing with his own soul would require interacting with the ninth dimension.
("It already could've collapsed something if I misstepped. One wrong move and it wouldn't just be me—it could mean the end of an entire world due to the disturbance.")
His gaze dropped, staring at the note.
"…Goddamn it," Mikoto whispered.
He wasn't even sure who he was cursing. Octavia? His fate? Himself?
"When it comes down to it…" he began, slowly, "was I ever just… Mikoto?"
That name, now that he said it aloud, felt foreign. A nickname given to a mask. Was Mikoto Yukio even a real person? Or just the identity that formed in the hollow left by two beings—an Angel and a God—sewn together inside one fragile vessel?
("There won't be anything left of Mikoto Yukio. Just the Angel. Just the God.")
Was Mikoto Yukio merely a lie the world allowed him to wear? A convenient illusion for someone meant to become something inhuman?
"Was I just a placeholder until something woke up?"
He shook his head roughly, as though trying to dispel the thoughts.
("I don't have time for this. I can't dwell on this. My old personality, my old souls… it's merging. Becoming dominant. Whether I stop the phase or not, there's no telling if I'll ever return to who I was. But if I don't stop it… more people could die.")
He didn't know what scared him more—losing himself, or keeping himself and letting the world burn.
His fingers curled around the note at last, lifting it slowly. The handwriting was casual, slightly messy, like it had been written quickly.
Heya!
Walking around in that armor of yours has got to be murder on the joints. I figured you might want a break, so I left some clothes for you. It took me a while to find something your size—and even then, it might be too big. You're really small, you know?
I was this close to just getting you a nice dress instead. Honestly, I'm still not entirely convinced you're a guy. But hey, I'm not here to judge.
Anyway, I'll be on the ground floor when you wake up. Come find me, okay?
—Gretel
Mikoto's eyes scanned the words slowly. Then again. And again.
The note wasn't mocking. It was playful. Light. And behind that there was something else. Concern, maybe. Or an awkward attempt at care.
His fingers crumpled the paper, slowly folding it into his palm as a long sigh escaped him.
"She's such an idiot…"
But his voice lacked venom. It was almost wistful.
And for a fleeting moment, Mikoto wondered what it would be like to be ordinary. To have someone write him stupid notes with playful teasing and heartfelt concern. To have someone who just saw the boy.
Just Mikoto.
Whoever that really was.
And then, like always, the moment passed.
He turned toward the clothes on the table, the next part of the day pulling him forward.
("But no, I was treated like an ordinary person... I know I was. Yes by my mother and my sister, they're still waiting.")
Those thoughts held strong but it felt as though something was missing.